


Shared Pain I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A bad dream and some hard questions.





	Shared Pain I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Shared Pain by phyre

27 October 1998  
'Shared Pain' by phyre  
NC-17 (well, *barely* but better to be safe than sorry)  
M/K  
Angst. Lots o' angst. I was pretty blue when I wrote it.  
Spoilers: "Tunguska"  
Summary: A bad dream and some hard questions.  
Distribution: ArchiveX. All others please ask.  
Feedback: If you have something to say I'd love to hear it so please send it to   
Disclaimers: They aren't mine. CC & Co. own them and the rights to them. I'm just playing with them. I'll put them back where I found them when I'm done.  
This is a birthday snippet for my chat buddy Ratgirl. It could turn into something more if I tend to it and water it a bit. I know she would like that.  
Author's notes: Is there any one of us who has not felt a loved one's pain and felt helpless at the same time? This is for all who are hurting and the loved ones who strive, sometimes in vain, to help.  
Special thanks go to my hubbish. He gives me his strength when I have none left.  
Not beta'd. I accept blame for every typo and mistake.

* * *

\----------------------------  
'Shared Pain' by phyre  
\----------------------------

"Alex." Strangled and whisper soft ... your name nearly dies unspoken in my throat.

Your body wakes before your eyes open. It coils spring-tight next to me, every muscle tense and ready to jump. Piercing green eyes flash to life under those impossibly long lashes. Anyone else would wake slowly, but not you, no ... you hate surprises, especially at night. You've lived this long by expecting the unexpected.

"What's wrong?"

That sleep-roughened voice is the balm I need to soothe away this godawful nightmare. Talk to me Alex ... say something ... anything ... just let me hear the sound of your voice to take away the sound of your screams.

"Nothing. Why do you always think there's something wrong?" I should be ashamed. We both know it's a lie and a piss-poor one at that.

Scrubbing my face with my hands, I try to ease away the fear and buy some precious time to pull myself together. So what if it's the middle of the night ... please keep talking and erase this whole thing. It's Tunguska all over again and this time they didn't just take your arm.

"Because usually there is. You look like shit, by the way."

Moonlight through the open shades paints the room a cool silver white. Nice color on the walls ... bad color on me.

Your eyes carelessly roam to the bedside table and steal a glance at the clock. Tactfully you do not mention that it's after 3 in the morning or that I'm sweating and shaking so badly I can hardly breathe. For this and other small gestures alike, I love you.

The bed shifts as you move to sit upright against the headboard. A soft hiss of discomfort hangs in the air when your bare back comes in contact with the cold worn wood.

Strong, deft fingers find my right shoulder and work to loosen the knotted muscles. I want to bite back that groan in my throat, but I can't. A satisfied snicker tickles my ear.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No." A slight shrug of my shoulders ... feigned indifference. Don't make me talk ... please ... not now, not yet. You wouldn't want to hear it anyway. Been there and found that out.

"Lean back." Not quite a request but not an order either.

Settled up against your chest, I hear your heartbeat. The nightmare is still fresh in my mind and a chill cuts through me when I realize just how close I was to never hearing that steady rhythm again.

Your hand works lazy circles over my chest and warm fingers worry a sensitive nipple. Another groan from my lips, this one tempered by need and desire. This is one of your favorite tactics; you know I won't talk so you offer me a distraction. Heal now; talk later. Maybe.

"Shh ... shhh, stay still." Soft warm breaths tickle my shoulder and your wet open mouth kisses my neck. A hand dips lower to hold my half hard cock, gently running your thumb over the tip again and again until I have to chew my lip and grind my ass against your hipbone to keep from begging.

"Jesus, I can't Alex."

"Can't what? Keep quiet or stay still?"

A sharp although not entirely unpleasant pain skims my earlobe. What big teeth you have. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

A quick flash memory of faceless men and campfire light. Damn. It catches me off guard and I can't suppress the shiver this time. Fucking dreams, they get me even when I'm awake. 

Do you see them in your sleep? Do the memories haunt you? You tell me you're okay but I know you aren't.

Your warm hand falls away.

"Look at me."

I can't. I remember everything you told me, every word of pain quietly spoken in a husked whisper slurred by too much vodka and too little sleep.

"Mulder, look at me."

Anger has crept into your voice. It's hiding in-between the words so rather than hear it again I turn and look into your eyes.

"It wasn't real. It didn't happen. It was a dream. I'm right here in front of you. I'm fine. Look at me Fox, I'm fine. I'm still breathing and can still fuck you silly any day of the week and twice on Sundays."

I take in the sight before me. You're here but you're not fine ... and you won't let me help you. Why is that? Is it trust? Is it pride?

By their own will my eyes travel across your collarbone and down the slope of your left shoulder; they close when they reach the angry scarred flesh. I can almost hear your screams punctuating the night air all those months ago.

"Does it make me any less in your eyes Mulder? Does it matter that much?"

Your voice is so quiet. The anger is gone now, replaced by pain ... pain and fear.

"No ... of course not Alex, why would you even ask me that?"

Ghostly pale skin gleams in the moonlight but it's your eyes, not your face, that scare me. They're so dark they've turned black. I want to turn away but I can't hurt you like that so I dig deep for courage and keep still.

"Because I never wanted your pity and if that's what this has turned into ... "

I shut my eyes and hold my breath. Please don't say it. Please don't say 'I'll leave'. 

You're a scared hurt animal backed into a corner. Your instincts tell you to fight and mine tell me to love you just the same. 

"Mulder?"

"It's not pity, Alex. That's not what it's about. You're right ... it was just a bad dream. It's over now." I'll tell him what he wants to hear. I'll back off. He does it for me. I can do it for him. Or can I?

"It's not over, Mulder ... not for you. I lived through it once; you re-live it every time you look at me."

True. Not entirely but in part. You re-live it as well. You just do it better than I do. Or do you?

So how do I tell you that your pain is mine and make you believe it? How do I tell you that when you hurt, and you do hurt, that I want so badly to ease it and feel so damned helpless because I can't? It's not pity Alex but how do I tell you?

One painful word at a time, that's how.

"Alex, we need to talk ..."

the end.

 

* * *

 

'Remembering the Pain' by phyre  
Rating: R (for language only); M/K   
Distribution: Archive X, TER/MA and All Things Rat. All others, please ask so I know where to visit.  
Spoilers: 'Terma' and 'Tunguska'.  
Author's Notes: This is the sequel to 'Shared Pain'. It would probably help to read that short vignette first. You can find that particular piece at All Things Rat, Archive X, my page and a few other places. If you need a URL, just let me know.  
Summary: Healing hurts; honesty may very well hurt more.  
Many thanks, a dozen virtual roses and a box of chocolates to Imajiru and Karen-Leigh who stepped up to bat for the quick and dirty beta.  
Feedback gratefully accepted at 

* * *

'Remembering the Pain'  
by phyre

"Alex, we need to talk ..."

In less than a heartbeat your eyes go flat black as the wall comes crashing down once more. Just another in a long series of walls. It doesn't take a genius to see it, only someone who knows you well. Watching you now as you turn away, I wonder if I know you at all.

Oh, I know your likes and dislikes. I know how to make you come hard and fast and how to make you beg for more. I know your birthday, how you take your coffee and like your eggs, your favorite color, favorite author and favorite movie. I even know a few little things; how you hold your breath just before the sun crests the horizon, the first time a lover broke your heart and the last time one broke your spirit.

One of these days I'll learn to accept these precious bits of information and treat them as a gift; not a right but a privilege. The fact that we've shared a bed for almost a year doesn't guarantee me any rights at all, does it? I have to earn them. How much longer do I have to wait until I really know you? Will there always be some invisible wall separating us?

There you sit, defensive, angry. Fear dancing just behind your eyes as they narrow; not much, but enough. Enough for me to know this won't be easy.

"No, we don't need to talk, Mulder, *you* do."

Ouch. Direct hit. "You're right, Alex. *I* need to talk. I--"

"Why? Why, Mulder? What do you want me to say?"

Angry words hissed through a clenched jaw. You're pissed off again and I can't answer because I just don't know how. All I can do is look at you and think about how much I love you, how much I hurt for you, even though you don't feel the pain.

"Fuck. Just how many times do you need to hear it? I woke up to hands holding me down. I felt the heat of the knife long before I felt the blade. I remember screaming and after that--nothing. I passed out and woke to one less body part but I was alive, Mulder, and that's what counted in my book. That's all that's ever counted with me. I *lived*. Everything else was secondary."

There it is. A neat tidy package. Very cold, very clinical. For all the emotion you showed, you could have been reading a weather report instead of giving a blow by blow description of the most devastating time of your life.

Of course that's not how you told me the first time.

The first time you were sitting in an empty, dimly lit bar just before closing time, working your way through the contents of a Stoli bottle, looking like you hadn't seen a bed in weeks, or soap and water for that matter. Gutsy move, giving the bartender my number. I got that call and thought for sure it was a trap; I just assumed you had died in Tunguska. Even so, it didn't stop me from going. Imagine my surprise when I saw you ... and your empty sleeve. I doubt I hid the shock too well but you didn't seem to care, or even notice. A few hours later, I stopped noticing as well.

"It's not about me, Mulder, it's about you. Your guilt. Phantom guilt like the phantom pains I feel in my arm."

What? Where the hell did that come from? "For God's sake Alex, you know that's not true."

"Isn't it? Isn't it? C'mon, you want to talk about honesty? Then start by being honest."

"What are you talking about? Listen--"

"No, Mulder! *You* listen. You wanted me to talk, I'm talking. My gut tells me you'd like nothing better than to have me fall into your arms sobbing and carrying on about the injustice of it all. It would ease your conscience somehow. You could apologize--again--and I could soothe you at the same time you're soothing me. Sort of like killing two birds with one stone. But that's not going to happen Mulder, because it's over, it's done and you, *you* need to get on with your life because I have damn well gotten on with mine. I don't need your pity or your psycho-babble. Shit happens. Get used to it. I told you, I lived and that's all that matters."

I never realized just how loud silence can be, how hollow and empty. From the hallway, I hear the clock ticking off measured increments of time; my heart beating nearly twice as fast.

I never realized how angry you can get without showing an ounce of emotion. How dare you, Alex? How fucking dare you?

"You know I'm right, Fox."

Fox. Fuck. It's serious now. You only call me 'Fox' when all hell's going to break loose emotionally, or when you're about to come and you damn sure don't look like you're getting off on this. You look and sound tired and just plain sick, like something is eating you away from the inside. How can you say this? How can you think I'm not being honest with you?

"Go on." That must have been my voice; the words came from my mouth, it just didn't sound like me. It sounded small, scared. This isn't about me. It's about you.

"That night ... I had nowhere to go. I was scared and angry and hurt and yeah, I guess I held you responsible but only for about a week. I wanted to hurt you, I wanted you to feel guilty. You know why? Because I knew you would. Jesus, Fox, you've been carrying the guilt of the world on your shoulders since the day I met you. Since before that. Everything that goes wrong in your life, in the lives of those you hold close, even in the lives of people you hate, you hold yourself responsible because that's the way you are. That's the way you were brought up. It was a cheap play on my part and I'm sorry about that. I knew it was wrong."

I don't want to hear this. This isn't about me. "Alex--"

"No, wait. Let me finish. Let me get this out before I ..."

I have to let a nod speak for me, I don't trust my voice and I know how it feels to start something and get stuck halfway through, to lose my nerve.

"What happened, everything that came down that night, was a direct result of *my* actions, not yours. *I* made the decision to bail from the truck. Do I regret it? Yeah, sure I do but you know I don't spend my time getting hung up on regrets. We all have 20/20 hindsight, right? If I had it to do over again, I would have taken my licks from you ... I would have won anyway."

There's a quick flash shine of white teeth in the barest hint of a smile. Your eyes are alive again. This is good.

"I thought bailing was a better idea. Obviously, I was wrong. So I ran--back to *them.*"

Yeah. Them. We don't talk much about *them*, do we? Some questions are better left unasked.

"I got a new arm and then I got away. It doesn't matter how, besides, they know where I am."

I know they do. We don't ever talk about that, about the hold they have on you. It's an unspoken law in this place. This is a safe place, the rest of the world can wait on the doorstep. In here, it's just us--no 'them'.

"Fox, don't try to take responsibility for something *I* did. I look at this differently than you. I jumped and you kept driving. We weren't exactly best friends. Remember?"

A snicker escapes with a rueful shrug. No, we weren't exactly best friends.

"This wasn't torture, it wasn't abuse. Those poor misguided, or maybe not so misguided, fools were trying to protect me the only way they knew how. I can't fault them for that, only for their ways. *I'm* the only one who could have prevented this, no one else. You need to believe that and stop trying to assume responsibility for everyone's actions."

"I'm not doing that, Alex. Why are you trying to tell me what I'm feel--" Oh Jesus! Fuck, how could I have been so stupid. The sudden clarity hits me harder than any punch I've taken. It's hard to breathe. Your voice is so soft now, so gentle.

"Why? Isn't that what *you're* doing?"

I can't look at you so I study the pattern of the sheets. I knew this. I knew it all along but I kept it hidden. Buried deep in the back of my mind and I used you. You're right, of course. About the guilt, the need for it. If I could help you, I could help myself but you didn't need any help. You'd already gone beyond it, gone on. I can't do that so I'm left alone. Alone and scared and angry ... and guilty for a thousand things beyond my control. And I used you, oh Jesus, I used you.

"Look, Fox, all I lost was my arm. Don't turn it into Samantha, don't ask me to grieve for it the way you grieve for her, it's not the same. It's not as important. Samantha wasn't your fault, no matter what that fucked-up family of yours told you. My arm wasn't your fault either. I never believed that, not even when I wanted to."

And the hallway clock keeps ticking off lost seconds of my life.

"So much for a good education." Lame joke but you'll forgive me, I know you will. And you'll ignore the catch in my voice, too. I can't admit to too much right now. It's enough that it's out in the open.

"You know, sometimes your education just gets in the way of what's really going on. I don't fit into any mold and you have to stop believing I do. You have to stop trying make me fit. We get along much better that way."

"I don't know if I can get past the guilt, Alex." I just don't know.

"I don't know if I can help you with that, Fox. I think maybe you need someone with a lot more letters after his name. Someone who can be objective, help you figure things out. All I'm going to do is think about how much I love you and that's not what you need. You need to accept the events of the past and work with them. You need to figure out what's important. I did it. I grieved for my arm for about a week and then I realized that I was alive and that's all that mattered. I could go on and still take whatever was thrown at me. I decided it was time to look at things differently, that included how I felt about you. I do know I love you and I don't need two arms to hold you or fuck you and I certainly don't need a fancy degree to tell me that."

It's so quiet. Just the sound of gentle breathing. The pattern of the sheet is blurring and the breeze shifts the leaves; their silhouettes dance on the walls.

The heat from your body warms me as you pull me in closer to your side. I want to kiss every inch of you, sleep in your arms with a sated smile on my face, grow old with you.

For you I can do this, for you I can learn to accept, because you love me and that's all that matters. Everything else is secondary.

finis.

http://www.squidge.org/terma/phyre/phyre.htm


End file.
